Therefore do thou at least arise and warn, <br />Not folded in thy mantle, a blind seer, <br />But naked in thy anger, and new--born, <br />As in the hour when thy voice sounded clear <br />To the world's slaves, and tyrants quaked for fear. <br />Thou hadst a message then, a word of scorn, <br />First for thyself, thy own crimes' challenger, <br />And next for those who withered in thy dawn. <br />An hundred years have passed since that fair day, <br />And still the world cries loud, in its desire, <br />That right is wronged, and force alone has sway. <br />What profit are they, thy guns' tongues of fire? <br />Nay, leave to England her sad creed of gold; <br />Plead thou Man's rights, clean--handed as of old.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-new-pilgrimage-sonnet-xviii/
